"
"We won't talk about her. Yes, I remember."
"And, as God is my witness, I couldn't feel solemn, I was so glad! I
was a minister, and my girl--the girl that was going to marry me--sat
down there where I could see her, dressed in white. I always thought of
you afterwards with that white dress on. You've stayed with me all my
life, just that way."
Mary Ellen put up her hand with a quick gesture to hide her middle-aged
face. With a thought as quick, she folded it resolutely upon the other
in her lap. "Yes, William," she said. "I was a girl then. I wore white
a good deal."
But the parson hardly heeded her. He was far away. "Mary Ellen," he
broke out suddenly, a smile running warmly over his face, and creasing
his dry, hollow cheeks, "do you remember that other sermon, my trial
one? I read it to you, and then I read it to Parson Sibley. And do you
remember what he said?"
"Yes, I remember. I didn't suppose you did." Her cheeks were pink. The
corners of her mouth grew exquisitely tender.
"You knew I did! 'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art
fair; thou hast doves' eyes.' I took that text because I couldn't think
of anything else all summer. I remember now it seemed to me as if I was
in a garden--always in a garden.
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